


the taste of colors

by holzkartoffel (winterbiss)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: I should go back to drawing stuff, I tried my best though, I'm always happy if people point out stupid errors I made, I'm sorry but English is clearly not my native tongue, M/M, Slow Build, Translation by yours truly, still just an excuse to write porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7349665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbiss/pseuds/holzkartoffel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An old soldier meets an arrogant assassin, and eventually decides to wipe that goddamn arrogance from his face, to break and reassemble him. And then wishes he hadn't, because feelings can be as nasty as rusty knives cutting through flesh and bone.</p>
<p>Rareship ahoy! Soldier/Hanzo, implied and then actual Reaper76 later on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. black

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Der Geschmack von Farben](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7328050) by [holzkartoffel (winterbiss)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterbiss/pseuds/holzkartoffel). 



Illuminated by the bright street lamps, the gentle rain almost looked like an ethereal curtain swaying softly in the wind, fluttering and waving, never fully touching the ground. Thunder rolled lazily across the night sky in the distance, and puddles had formed in the potholes on the street and the parking lot where the ground had become somewhat uneven. One of the floodlights lighting the massive red company logo in front of the building flickered to life every five seconds, just to die again. Every time it did, the Rod of Asclepius and the letters below were halfway swallowed by shadows. The letters read 'Okumai Corporation' in a font clearly meant to give it an Asian look, like brush strokes on a grey canvas.

A few scattered cars were parked around the lot, their repulsors dimly lit. The wireless charger on the occupied lots were marked with an orange diode to notify the owner of the car that it was fully charged by now. There was a gate restricting entrance to the parking lot right next to a small booth made for a parking attendant to keep an eye on the lot by day, but it was empty now. Thick drops of rain were rolling down the windows, its inside obscured by darkness.

The illumination of the office building came from the street lamps, as well as the indirect lighting of the dimly lit civilian buildings in the distance. The vast green belt of carefully maintained lawn, shrubbery, and sakura trees surrounding the elegantly understated main structure, distancing it from the surrounding town and its unprivileged inhabitants, gave it a somewhat noble look reminiscent of the long past shogunate era. None of the building's windows were opened.

Except for one.

Had somebody been nearby, they would have surely heard the crystalline sound of glass shards raining onto the concrete below, shattering into a hundred pieces. They would have seen the dark grey figure climbing into the window above, rappeled down from the roof using a simple climbing rope. The way the figure moved through the window couldn't be called elegant, but it was functional enough to not break more glas as was necessary. The rope was left outside, swaying softly in the wind, as something inside the room emitted sparks. The figure had slammed a signal jammer into the room‘s security box with its blinking lights and beeping tones indicating it was in the process of checking a inconsistency in the conductivity of a now nonexistent pane of window glass. He knew that it would not go unnoticed, neither would the broken window. But at least he had delayed the automated alarm and bought some time for himself. They'd know someone had been here as soon as the building's AI decided to run another routine check on the integrity of its security systems. But he would be gone by then. He would HAVE to be gone by then.

Carefully he removed the experimental pulse rifle from his back, muzzle pointing towards the ground as he removed his grey hood with his other hand. Only idiots and people watching too many movies would ever point a gun upwards. Those were the same idiots that also believed stark black was the most low-key color to go unnoticed at night. The night was never fully black, it was always dark grey. Wearing black would only make your silhouette stand out more at night.

His combat boots weren't meant for infiltration, neither was the heavy rifle he was carrying but he would make do. He always did. Silently he rolled his feet from heel to toe with every step, making as little noise as possible, even though his main problem wouldn't be people being able to hear his footsteps or the rustle of his clothes. His biggest problem would be the light barriers, motion detectors and pressure sensors. Tech like that didn't give a single fuck if someone was pounding like a herd of angry bulls or at least trying to move silently.

The second figure entering the broken window shortly after him was everything the first one wasn't; nimble, quick, inaudible, except for a single, low snort of disdain that escaped his nose and lips as he looked at the still sparking broken security box next to the window. He had not only jammed the security circuits, he had also jammed the air conditioning supposed to keep the window clean and dry during hot summer days. Both boxes had been labeled with Kanji accordingly.

Definitely not an infiltration specialist, the second figure mused. A clumsy, brazen gaijin moving on foreign ground where he did not belong.

The gaijin, without knowing that he was such - let alone knowing what it meant - rounded a corner slightly ducked, just in case someone or something came up with the bright idea of shooting straight at head level and continued down the corridor. Light was filtering through the cracks below two of the doors, and the soldier hurried past them as he heard mumbled words behind those doors. He wanted to avoid awkward encounters ending with casualties, noise, and all the hubbub that would cause. He wasn't here to kill. Not this time. He leaned against the wall at the next corner, his upper arm lined up in a straight line with the edge, listening. About two seconds later, two bipedal omnics walked past the corridor adjacent to this one, maybe ten feet away. They didn't have flashlights with them, which meant that they were utilizing night vision. Their easygoing conversation told him that they hadn't noticed him, not yet anyway. To use a stereotype for this country, he simply wasn’t „Ninja“ enough. It didn't matter that he WOULD be noticed. The matter of WHEN was more important.

His gloved finger tapped silently against the side of his rifle with every step the two omnics took. Five steps until they were out of sight. He waited for seven more taps before finally rounding the corner.

The agile shadow following him was still unnoticed.

Stairs were one of his worst enemies that night. Not because he couldn't move on them silently, neither because of their slope. What made them so horrible was that most stairs in modern buildings like this one were clad in glass or hard light, sometimes even made entirely out of it. He felt like in a hamster in a fishbowl when walking up one of them. It would only take someone, somewhere, looking the wrong direction, at the wrong moment to see him climb the stairs. It was depending on sheer luck, not skill or knowledge of his surroundings, and he hated it.

The next corridor he entered had a more clinical look to it, with walls the color of pale egg shells and a floor that had the same distorted pattern they used in hospitals to better hide permanent stains. The air tight door blocking his way greeted him with a soft dinging noise as a panel next to it flickered to life. A few Japanese letters below the outline of a hand. He didn't need to know Japanese to know that the panel was asking for valid fingerprints. He didn't have any - what he did have, however, was a small electronic device he produced from one of his cargo pants' pockets. Wires ran from the top of what looked like a modified cell phone into a grey lump of sticky mass the size of his thumb. He pressed the grey mass onto the scanner, waited for a few seconds, and then started swiping his right index finger back and forth across the device. Every time the scanner tried scanning the grey lump that looked remarkably like chewing gum, it showed a few japanese letters in red, along with the soft buzzing noise universally to be understood as -wrong, try again, idiot-. The third time the scanner started scanning what was stuck on its front, it stopped halfway through, froze for a few seconds and then glowed in a soothing, green light. Whatever those squiggly symbols meant, the soldier took them as 'Access Granted' as the doors slid open.

The door stayed open for exactly eight seconds. Between seconds 6 and 7, the second intruder barely made it through and almost lost the tip of his hair band that followed him like a lazy trail of smoke to the quickly closing doors.

It must have been one of the worst evenings for the young Asian woman that stepped out of a bathroom precisely at the wrong time. The last thing she saw was the white and blue butt of a rifle coming at her face before she was knocked out cold. The soldier caught her upper arm before she could fully hit the floor, dragged her into the bathroom, and placed her in the door's blind spot, face towards the ground. He had probably broken her nasal bone along with her zygomatic, but she would live after he had made sure she wouldn't choke on her own blood. And if the medical company she worked for couldn't help her, she definitely had the wrong kind of job.

The bright wedge of light from the bathroom door dwindled, then disappeared completely after the door had closed. The armed intruder was already on his way further down the corridor. His stalker narrowed his eyes as he waited for another few seconds in the shadow of the door frame. Maybe the woman was dead, and the gaijin didn't want her body to be found so quickly. It didn't matter. It was her own fault, working for a company like this - she could be dead for all he cared.

The next door the soldier stopped in front of looked more like the entrance to a treasury, like the massive gate to a vault, with its bare metal and thick hinges cemented directly into the wall itself. It didn't have any kind of scanner next to it, but rather a pad with numbers on it. It almost looked inconspicuous, but he had learned one thing in his life: If something really was important, it ALWAYS looked inconspicuous. Nobody built bright neon signs above their most well guarded secrets anymore. He pulled the small, wired device out again, glued the grey lump to the side of the num pad and pushed a single, red wire out of the way with his thumb to have a better view of the small screen.

It completely escaped him that an arrow was nocked onto a bowstring in the shade of a big, potted palm tree behind him.

Hissing, the door eventually opened slowly and stolidly, as if its builder wanted to underline its sturdiness even more. It had a diameter of at least 30 inches, maybe more, the intruder noted as he pulled it open with his gloved hand. It didn't have an automatic opening or closing mechanism, much to his delight; he wouldn't have to worry about his way back if he didn't close the door fully, and he dearly hoped it wouldn't cause an alarm if the door was being left open for a few minutes. He made sure the bolts didn't snap back into place when he carefully closed it behind him.

Just as he turned around, there was a crash and a shriek to his right, and he instantly had his rifle at the ready, pointed at a Barbary Ape behind a solid window. It had wires and cables sticking out of its shaven head, all the way down to its exposed spine, and it was flashing its teeth at him.

"Fuck", was the first thing he breathed lowly after a while, after he had remembered to breathe, lowering the weapon again, taking his finger off the trigger.

American, his stalker decided. Americans were the only people in this world to have perfected the word 'fuck' as an answer to the meaning of life, the universe and everything in general.

Accompanied by the drumming of the ape's tiny hands against the glass window, the soldier reached up to the left side of his mask. For a moment he hesitated, then flicked a switch with his thumb, the high-pitched whine of a night vision device filled the corridor a second later. It quickly rose to levels unhearable by human ears, but at least he could see. Thermal imaging wouldn't have done him any good in this environment - neither would night vision if someone or something decided to turn on the lights all of a sudden, but it was a risk he had to take.

If the images through his visor hadn't been a monochrome green, he would have noticed the absence of color in this very corridor. Everything was a light shade of grey, as if nobody even bothered with aesthetics or cheerful colors anymore, not here, and the very basic air filter of his mask did very little to hide the biting smell of overdosed antiseptics. Here, the soles of his boots made these annoying little squeaking noises with every step he took, but he still managed to keep even these sounds to a minimum.

Behind the windows, his night vision picked up bleak laboratories, sometimes filled with cages of all sizes, sometimes with stretchers that gave him an uneasy feeling deep down in his gut. He had seen his fair share of medbays and laboratories from the inside, but that certainly didn't mean he liked them. And he had always been there voluntarily - he didn't even want to start imagining what it was like to be victim of some sort of cruel, medical experiment. It was something humanity would never grow out of.

Something else caught his attention. A lighter green shade pushing past his left boot, a ray of light, barely visible, but it was there.

His head whipped around like a snapped rubber band, the faint red from his visor like a freshly torn wound in the dark. His body followed, heaving the suddenly too heavy rifle around and pulling the trigger before he had fully aligned the sights with the door. The muzzle flare exploding from the end of his gun coated the narrow corridor with rapid strobe light and effectively blinded him. He knew it was spray and pray blindly, but it was so much better than just shrugging and doing nothing. The bullets, made of a carbon-ceramic compound material, hit the massive door like a swarm of angry hornets, most of them dropping to the floor after being deformed by the impact; others, as far as he could hear, ricocheted off the door and hit the walls and floor instead.

The arrow that had missed his head by mere inches just because he had turned around went by unnoticed, just as the archer did. He had ducked behind the wall as soon as the soldier had turned around, silently waiting for the hail of bullets to end. He already had a new arrow nocked on the string, two more arrows held between index and middle finger of his left hand, parallel to the front of his bow. It was quicker than drawing from the quiver on his back.

The dragon's bite was not supposed to miss. It never missed, and it would have caused a sudden end to the gaijin. One without honor, but it would have been swift. That was more than could be said for others that had died from his arrows. But it did miss - and the archer could hear the running footsteps of the damned gaijin further down the hall. Maybe he thought that he had alerted local security to his position. He waited until the fifth step had reached his ears, then rounded the corner and pulled the bowstring until the fletching touched his cheek. The red streak in the darkness turned again to look at him, and he had no choice but to let his arrow fly - aiming at the red streak, at the head of the man. But he was moving, and without seeing him, it was impossible to tell where to and how fast.

The sound of stumbling footsteps rewarded him, even as he had to duck behind the door again to avoid another hail of bullets that rained against the door once more. Just unaimed covering fire this time, though or maybe he had hit his mark well enough to impair his ability to aim. Maybe he’d even fatally wounded the gaijin but the footsteps that now continued to echo down the hall, made that thought moot. Either he was well armored - which would have explained his clumsiness - or he had missed, again.

Jack himself would have explained it as 'being a stubborn and tough fucker', because he wasn't heavily armored. He had to bite back a noise of pain and annoyance as the arrow hit his upper shoulder with enough force to make him stumble forward. Cursing under his breath, he reached up and snapped the shaft off, throwing the broken remains behind him. There had been enough projectile wounds in his life for him to know that it was imperative to not remove the projectile itself. It acted as a cork in his body. If he removed it, he might just bleed to death within minutes.

The assassin behind him had already nocked another arrow and let it fly, just as the soldier skid around the corner at the end of the corridor. Shooting a fleeing man in the back was not an honorable death, but the asian had no time to consider this. The man's death would not be a gentle stroke in the book of warfare, but rather spilled ink that dripped from the sides of it. But this time, the arrow hit the wall instead of the man. He could hear it, the shaft breaking into pieces, splintering from head to nock, like singing glass.

Clumsily, the old man crashed into the opposite wall shoulder first as he tried to take the turn at a full run. He stumbled, and shot an angry glare at the door in front of him that towered as a dead end before him. Turning around, rifle aimed at the corner he had just turned, his thumb carefully felt for the safety switch of the Helix launcher, even as he dug around in his right pocket. Seconds later, a triangular device was slapped onto the security panel at the door behind him, glowing in a faint, golden light around the edges.

"Open the fucking door, Athena", he rasped through grit teeth, the mask making him sound more omnic than human.

"Stranger", came from a voice around the corner, too close for comfort, causing Jack to readjust his rifle once. Male. With a heavy accent. God, that fucker was quick. "Be reasonable and understand that your path ends here. I am giving you the choice to die with honor. That which you seek is not meant for you."

The guy was shooting arrows. ARROWS. With a BOW. And the white-haired soldier had one of the most advanced weapons known to mankind in his hands. He couldn't shoot around corners, not even with ricochet taken into account, not with the ammo he was currently using. But then again, neither could the archer. A downright, honest-to-God archer. Japan was indeed a strange country. He could've used a goddamn slingshot and it wouldn't be any worse.

"You Japanese all sound the same", he replied with annoyance in his voice. He was playing for time right now, but what was the archer going to do? The second he stepped around the corner, he would have quite a few bullets in his body. A quick glance at his ammo display confirmed that he had 8 bullets left. Enough to kill a single man. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that the guy would let him reload. Stuff like that only worked in movies where the bad guys never hit the good guys anyway.

"Nobody will stand between me and my family", was the next thing he heard, in a voice that managed to make the hair on his nack stand on end. It was too calm. Like a suicide bomber, seconds before pushing a little red button. Too confident.

"I don't give a rat's ass, Mister Okumai", he shouted back, eyeing the countdown in the upper left part of his HUD, put there by Athena herself instead of relying on verbal communication. 11 seconds until the door would open. The number felt like a pair of fingernails on his eyeball. "Nobody gets between my team and m--"

It was simple geometry. The angle of incidence always equaled the angle of reflection, and the gaijin intruder could not see his assassin aim at the corner in front of him. The bowstring sang its sad song, the arrow hit the wall and then splintered into a multitude of projectiles. It was the second Jack learned that he had been wrong about archers, or maybe just this one in particular. His assumption that they could only shoot straight was obviously not quite true. The glowing shrapnels were something his mind classified as something made of hard light, even as he pulled the trigger for the Helix launcher. He knew the resulting explosion would sweep him clean off his feet as well, the corner and opposing wall were too close for anything else, but it sure as hell beat every other option that included "doing nothing and just dying".

A shouted word - no, a name - came flying together with the arrow and its deadly shrapnels, in a tone that sounded highly offended, as if the soldier had just insulted his assassin by calling him 'Okumai'. 'Shimada', he had shouted, and Jack had almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation.

But the explosion was quicker. It illuminated the hallway in a bright, blue light, sending a wave of heat and noise towards the Japanese and himself. It caught the archer off guard and sent him flying against the nearest wall to his left, then onto the ground, where he remained motionless. It also threw the soldier back against the steel door, knocking the wind out of him and causing him to lose consciousness as he slumped down, his back still against the door, leaving a bright red trail where the back of his head had hit the metal.

Even as he was flung about like a rag doll by the explosion, his mind took stock of what it had gathered. First, 'Shimada', the guy had said. Second, he had implied that Jack was standing between him and his family. Third, he himself was here to secure a bit of data Okumai had collected about Genji , with which they could do some nasty things in their cybernetics division. And it was curious that the guy and Genji had the same last name, his mind pointed out.

Just before he could connect the dots, he slammed against the unyielding door, his mind blanked and he slipped into a very unwelcome unconsciousness with the butt of his rifle digging painfully into his ribs as he slumped against the door.

And with that, the hallway was once again plunged into darkness, and silence returned in the still of the night.


	2. steel grey

The thick droplets of blood were an almost pretty contrast to the white sink as they were running towards the drain, until the water washed them away in a swirl of pale red. The smell of disinfectant below the cold light of the single bathroom lamp was heavy, and apart from the low buzzing of the lightbulb and the burble of water the stagnant breathing escaping the soldier's lips were the only source of noise.

Every time he ran the needle through the wound's edges near his shoulder blade, he held his breath after inhaling sharply, his upper body angled slightly as to better reach the wound. The suture looked like it had been done by an alcoholic suffering from Parkinson's, he didn't have to actually see it to know it looked terrible, but it would do for now. Doctor Ziegler would have to borrow a few hands to throw them all up in horror as soon he was back and she'd have taken a look at the skillful embroidery on his shoulder.

Two more stitches until he exhaled sharply, let his shoulder slump down and turned his head back towards the small bathroom mirror, and he tilted his head to both sides to loosen the muscles in his neck a little. On the toilet lid next to him stood a plastic case the size of a shoebox holding his currently needed equipment: Surgical suture material, dressings, a few small bottles of alcohol and other kinds of disinfectant that used to burn so fucking much it made you wish you'd have already lost your injured limb, along with a few blister packs of tablets. Each of the blister packs was marked with colored crosses (or sometimes dots, depending on who marked them for someone like Jack) on the plain back, drawn with a marker; green had been used for the painkillers, blue were the anti-inflammatories, black the sleeping pills. The more crosses or dots a pack had, the stronger its contents.

Jack wiped his side and lower back with one of the white hotel towels, put it along with needle and stitch on the brim of the sink and took one of the larger, square dressings from his first aid box. He tore the packaging open with his teeth, spit the torn top of it onto the floor and removed the patch with his bloody fingers to stick it onto the fresh surture on his shoulder. It was only half aimed, but as long as it covered the suture and protected it from dirt for a few hours, maybe a few days, it would do. The water cleaned his hands of most of the blood, the rest of it was wiped into the towel hanging from the sink. He cast a final glance into the mirror that cut off the top of his head because it was hung a little low for people of his height. Asian bathrooms, heh. Still he could see the blood in his white hair that had come from the back of his head, from a laceration he couldn't quite remember. He was paler than he would have liked, his eyes underlined by dark purple shadows that spoke of sleep deprivation, his jaw lined by light grey stubbles that gave away how he hadn't shaved for the last five days.

And behind him on the bed, at an angle barely visible in the mirror, was a tattooed arm tied to the bed-head with a torn sheet and a cable tie around the wrist.

He took two of the blister packs with him as he left the bathroom. Green and blue. Green had three crosses on the back, blue had two. He removed two of each from the packs, flipped them into his mouth with his hollow hand and picked up the bottle of Shōchū resting on the dresser with the bolted TV. Blue eyes rested on the bed and its occupant as he swallowed the tablets with a mouthful of alcohol. Make that a few more hands for Doctor Ziegler to throw up in horror, he noted mentally.

The fact that he had taken the older Shimada with him made him want to laugh out loud and smack his forehead. The thought at least made him take another sip of Shōchū before he cast a skeptical glance at the colorful bottle lined with Kanji. It was probably detergent or rat poison, he mused. The Japanese had always had a very strange taste when it came to packaging. And besides... he could have just left the older Shimada where he was lying on the floor in that goddamn building. He wouldn't have died; his injuries hadn't been fatal. Security would have found him. Locked him up. He would have received a regular trial, he would have had to answer for the dozens of murders executed by the Shimada clan... and in the end, named clan would have snatched him from a cell somewhere without anybody giving a single fuck, not if they had been paid well. And if Asians were one thing, it was certainly being creative when torturing people to death. Jack remembered things like pushing bamboo splinters under fingernails, metal buckets with rats that were strapped to one's stomach that were then heated at the end so the rats would panic and start chewing through the victim's abdominal wall and of course the famous waterboarding.

Oh, and there had been cases where the Asians would make a sharpened bit of bamboo grow through a man's abdomen, entering through his ass, resulting in one of the most painful deaths known to mankind. If that wasn't creative, he didn't know what was.

Hissing painfully, clad only in his grey cargo pants and a pair of socks, he sat down in the armchair across the room, closer to the door. The bottle was placed on the small table adjacent to it, next to the ash tray and the holographic emitter showing a colorful ad of the local delivery service. He leaned his head back and immediately regretted that decision; the laceration was still there, and he had only covered it with a few antiseptic dressings instead of properly treating it. But he was in no position to do so – shaving the back of your own head and then stitching it up was nearly impossible without proper help.

The elder Shimada offspring lay flat on the bed, his bare feet tied together with the second part of the torn sheet and a few more cable ties which in turn were tied to the bed frame. He was still out cold, but it didn't protect him from the moody glances the soldier shot him. After all, the bastard had tried to kill him, even though his motives were... reasonable. Jack had to admit that after he had argued on his way back to the hotel for half an hour. First with Winston, then with Genji. 'Arguing' with Genji usually meant that Jack barked at him and always cut him short whenever the boy tried to answer, just because he could. It hadn't been any different this time.

He remembered only fragments from what had happened after they had nearly killed each other. There had been Athena's voice in his ear, calling him John as usual, informing him about his vitals that looked suboptimal and about the fact that the building had been locked down due to red alert. She had told him to get out, because there were armed vehicles driving up in front of the building. And she had also led him to the computer center after telling him three times what a bad idea it was to continue. He had limped there, with the Japanese slung over one shoulder, his goddamn bow over the other shoulder and his own rifle clutched under his arm. Like a pack mule, only more stubborn.

Okumai had lost their data on Genji for sure after Athena's virus had entered through the backdoor he had brought and connected to the mainframe. There was no way for him to actually see what was happening inside a computer system, but judging by how the uninterrupted power supplies started to blow up above his head with a cascade of sparks, the AI knew exactly what she was doing.

He couldn't remember how exactly he had gotten out of the building, nor how he had made his way back to the cheap rental car parked in between a few bushes a few hundred feet away. He had simply functioned, had removed the self from himself without having to think about it, had acted on instinct like somebody had pulled invisible strings attached to his body. There had been soft rain on his face and the smell of blood, the drive back to the hotel and the desperate fight to stay awake inside the car, with the Shimada asshole on his backseat.

In the end, Genji had been the one who convinced him to not throw his brother out of the car in front of the nearest police station. Not because he was indeed his brother - that wouldn't be a carte blanche in Jack's book and Genji knew this very well - but with a very simple statement.

'John', he had said, 'You know what the clan does to traitors. You have seen it. You have spent years of your life fighting against it.'

That statement had been enough without the need for further words. No pleading for his brother's life, no telling Jack how he wouldn't be any better than the Shimada clan if he simply left Hanzo's life in their hands, no side blows towards his conscience. It hadn't been necessary. His own mind had drawn him colorful pictures of everything left unsaid, better than words from other people could have ever done.

God, he needed a smoke. Right now. But his cigarettes were in the sports bag at the other end of the shabby hotel room, close to the window – a distance Jack classified as 'too far' right now. And besides, he felt himself dozing off, without being able to do anything against it, and a burning stub falling into his lap was something he didn't really need. He exhaled sharply, muttered a curse against his own fingers as he rested his chin on the heel of his hand, his elbow resting on the chair's arm in turn. He just needed to close his eyes for a second, just needed to sit there and wait until the painkillers kicked in. Avoid thinking about what the fuck he was going to do now if he didn't want to force Lena or one of the few others to fly all the way to Japan under the radar just to get away from here. Avoid thinking about what would happen if he'd remove that man's ties, because throwing the bed out of the window along with him wasn't an option, even though it did sound tempting.

The undefined noise reaching his ears lashed him out of his half-decent delirium within half a second. Military reflexes took over where his mind hat trouble catching up – when it did, he found himself sitting upright, right hand on his sidearm, index finger on the trigger guard, thumb on the safety, the Glock 17 already pulled halfway out of its holster. His eyes darted to the window, then to the door, finally to the bed when he realized the damn Japanese had just let his head fall back onto the pillows. The noise that had woken him remained unidentified, but he figured it had to do with the Shimada asshole tearing at his ties. Ties that were holding as of now – a fact that made him release the breath he had been holding, made him push the sidearm back into its holster with his thumb.

"Watashi o hodoku, kuso yarō!", the Japanese growled from the bed, lifted his chin and any lesser man would have probably dropped dead from the look he shot Jack.

"Sorry, I don't speak Nintendo. Or asshole, for that matter", the old soldier replied with the kind of indifference that only managed to intensify the burning hate in the Japanese man's eyes. He rose, keeping the left side of his body towards the bed. The asshole didn't need to know where he carried his sidearm. Not that it mattered at the moment, but caution was always well advised around bloodthirsty maniacs.

Now that the adrenaline began to kick in, he could as well get his cigarettes. Everyone who had ever been startled in his life knew how adrenaline worked; you got scared witless, then you had about ten seconds of calm until your heart started to hammer, you started trembling all over, your ears started to buzz. He crouched down in front of the white and blue sports bag that was definitely meant for ice hockey equipment judging by its size, pulled one of the magnetic zips open and took a look inside. There was his pulse rifle along with a few clips of ammo, a light Kevlar vest he had used to wrap his visor in, and across everything a bowstring going from one end of the bag to the other. The quiver was resting next to the bow, only the Japanese's boots were missing; he had simply thrown them into a corner of the shabby hotel room, where one of them was leaned against the wall, the other one lay on the stained carpet.

"Untie me!", the eldest Shimada son hissed from the bed, and he somehow managed to make his words sound like the bite of a poisonous snake. Still, the soldier let the words roll off his back like water from a duck's back as he grabbed the pack of Luckies from the sports bag and stood up.

"Nope", he simply replied as he took one of the cigarettes between his chapped lips. He stretched a little, fighting off the dizziness that tried to tell him the room itself was tilting to one side as he pulled the cheap, yellow lighter from the cigarette pack.

It was obvious that the Shimada offspring was having trouble processing an answer like that. He bared his teeth, pulled at the ties around his wrists to the point where Jack could have almost counted every single tendon and muscle fiber all the way down to his chest. He probably wasn't used to getting answers like that, being the heir of a criminal empire and all that.

"Untie. Me. Now", Hanzo repeated, darker, lower.

It was a strange form of recognition and even sympathy Jack had for the fact that he was cutting his own wrists on the zip ties. It was better than just lying on the bed without putting up a fight and just shrugging at everything. He himself wouldn't have acted any differently.

"No", the white-haired soldier simply repeated.

"Anata o korosu tsumorida! Untie me!" The Japanese's voice had become a hoarse bellow at this point, and the soldier was quite confident that Hanzo would have removed his head with those bare hands if given the chance just now.

"Maybe you should think about shutting the fuck up", he said on his way back to the chair next to the door. The right side of his body was now turned towards the bed, the sidearm clearly visible, but it didn't matter. The archer was still tied up and the ties seemed to hold. "We're in a hotel. Dunno if you really wanna risk people calling the cops – would be quite a sight if they found you like this, I guess."

It caused Hanzo to take his eyes off Jack for the first time. He looked around the shabby room; ceiling, door, window, walls, door to the bathroom, until his eyes rested on the soldier again. He bared his teeth, but at least he didn't shout anymore.

Smart boy.

"You have no idea who I am", he hissed towards the soldier, still with that heavy accent of his.

"Oh, I do", the other man said as he lit his cigarette with the cheap lighter. Something caused him to raise the corner of his mouth in amusement as he glanced at the Asian from the corner of his eye; the expression on his face made it clear that he thought smoking to be disgusting.

Blood was flowing in thin lines down from Hanzo's wrists along his arms, leaving a dark red trail on his left arm, a lighter shade of red on his tattooed arm. Nothing serious, but zip ties could hurt like hell, Jack knew that much.

"You may know some of the wanted posters of me", he snarled, as if he was actually paying heed to the volume of his voice now. "What are you? Headhunter? American intelligence? You have no idea who you are dealing with!"

The ex-commander took another drag of his cigarette without removing it from his lips, lifted a finger, almost as if he was asking for a moment of patience. He shifted in the chair to better reach into his left pocket, pulled his com out – a small device that resembled every other smartphone on the market, just with different software, with different purpose and hooked up to one of the best AIs in the world, all thanks to Winston – and poked the screen with his right index finger a few times. He began to speak just as Hanzo took a breath to protest.

"Hanzo Shimada – or Shimada Hanzo, I've been told you use last names before first names", he began without looking up from the small device. He didn't have to. The silence coming from the bed was enough for him to know he'd hit home. "Born on January 13th in the year of the Dragon 38 years ago, son of Kaito Shimada and Yui Shimada, weighed exactly..." Jack raised his eyebrows, wiped his finger across the screen a few times. "...1873 grams at birth. Blood type 0 negative, sole heir of the Shimada clan after you've killed your brother."

With that, he looked up as he took another drag from his cigarette, now holding it between his index and middle finger. The Asian on the bed had forgotten to tear at his ties for the last twenty seconds, even though his hands were still clenched into fists. He stared at the soldier, eyes wide, jaw working.

"Want me to continue?", Jack asked with raised eyebrows.

"No", the Japanese bit back through grit teeth and then finally slumped back into the pillows. "Who are you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm supposed to say hi from your brother."

To be honest, that last part was only for the sake of shutting Hanzo up. Jack didn't need all those 'who are you' questions in his life, especially not from that Japanese asshole. And it worked like a charm; surprise made way for shock on the Asian's face. The kind of shock that was rooted somewhere behind the sternum, much too deep to be removed. Ever.

"Genji", Hanzo managed in a hoarse whisper.

Jack wasn't quite sure if that was supposed to be a question, a demand or the beginning of a lament. However, all the pride Hanzo had radiated like an uncrowned king despite his current situation was suddenly washed away. The man's grey eyes slipped from Jack's face, darted around the room as if trying to figure out where exactly he was, or _why_ he was. Jack let him take his time, taking another lung full of smoke, releasing said smoke slowly through his nostrils.

"Where is he?"

_That_ , on the other hand, sounded like the Japanese couldn't quite make up his mind whether his pride or information about his brother was more important right now. Still he managed to look like he was an ambassador paying a state visit and Jack was merely his advisor. It was astonishing, and it was the first time the soldier saw something like it. Angry, tied up people weren't supposed to be superior and noble. They were supposed to be angry and tied up. But this man, shit. Jack could just mentally remove the ties from the imagery before him and it wouldn't have changed anything about the nobleness of that man.

"Not here", he said despite everything going through his mind. "And we should get going as well."

"There is no 'we'. Untie me, I have... things to take care of."

It would have been so much easier to let the Japanese go. It would have been a huge chunk of problems simply gone, problems that probably launched themselves at Jack as soon as he was letting his guard down to stab him. Or shoot him. With arrows. The soldier would have simply continued to do what he had been here for in the first place, and he couldn't care less what would have happened to the archer. Sadly, none of this was an option, not in Jack's book. Had he ever taken the easy, simple way out of something, he definitely wouldn't have been sitting here just now.

"You treated my wounds", the Japanese's voice tore through his train of thoughts, only to add: "Where is the data about Genji?"

Two ricochets had hit Hanzo. Nothing serious. One had punched right through his upper arm without grazing bone or larger vessels, the other one had gone through the back of his hand. Jack had cleaned and stitched both wounds, yet the wound on his hand was already bleeding again due to all the movement and strain.

"Sure", Jack heard himself say. "But I'm not gonna show you other people's dirty underwear even if they're related to you. It's his choice if he wants you to see the data, not mine."

The nicotine made his fingertips tingle, it numbed his senses as if he was 14 years old and had never had a smoke in his life. It was probably due to the other pills he had taken, some sort of mutual reaction along with the alcohol. Whatever it was, it was the kind of weariness too deep for anything but sleep, and he desperately wanted to sleep. But the night was already over, and he simply couldn't afford to sleep. Not in an unsecure environment, not with a murderous maniac tied up next to him.

Sighing, the older Shimada let his head fall back onto the bed. "What now?", he asked, "Are you going to turn me in? Sell me to the clan in hopes of a reward?"

It was a question the soldier couldn't answer, because the plans he had made ended right here and now. As soon as he untied the Asian, everything could happen. He could have tried to kill Jack and would have probably even succeeded given the narrow space available, if Jack hadn't shot him first. He could have just sat down cross-legged, because _all_ Asians always sat cross-legged in Jack's world. Or he could have jumped out of the window and just been gone.

It felt the same as hitting a wasps' nest with a burning stick. The result was definitely unpleasing.

In the very moment Jack took a breath to give an answer – even though he still had no idea how that answer would look, even as he drew breath – there was a knock. A knock at the door leading to the hallway, eventually leading out of the small hotel. A sound so plain and yet for both men worse than a red-hot iron pressed onto delicate skin in this moment. It was a polite knock, three times. Just like everything was always so damn polite about Asians. Except the Shimada offspring on the bed maybe.

Hanzo's eyes went to the door, then fixated Jack as if all of this was completely his fault, this whole situation with him on the bed, stripped of his honor and pride while someone wanted something just behind that door. Jack, on the other hand, stood up silently, drew the sidearm from its holster and tucked it in the back of his pants, into the waistband. He opened the buckle of the black holster, removed it from his hip and tossed it over to the sports bag.

Neither of them said a single word.

It was just another discovery Jack made this night – or morning, rather: Asian hotel doors did not have peepholes. It was unfortunate, but didn't change the fact that he opened the door like someone expecting room service. It was his idea of a stake, in hopes he wouldn't get shot in the face immediately. His reward would be coming across as normal. Inconspicuous, like he didn't have a weapon tucked behind his waistband, like there was no tied up criminal on his bed currently staring daggers at the side of his head.

He didn't get a bullet to the face. Instead, he found himself looking at two police officers, male human and Omnic, both dressed in neat uniforms. And both armed with service weapons at their hips. Two SIG P220 with automatic firing pin safety, his mind added, without him taking a further look. Because _that_ would have been very suspicious.

"Evening", he said, brows raised, giving his best impression of a clueless tourist. The two scars running across his face didn't really help that impression, but they could have been from an accident. Work accident, maybe. Actually, that wasn't too far from the truth.

"Good evening", the human said with the same kind of accent all Asians seemed to have. Like he was about to serve sushi, or fried noodles, or whatever you could get at those little Asian shops in the mall.

The Omnic, which Jack had difficulties classifying as either civilian or combat model due to the uniform it was wearing, continued in a much smoother, well programmed English. "We apologize for the trouble, Sir, but we have received complaints about a disturbance. We just wanted to make sure that everything is in order."

"What kind of disturbance? We just had sex. I'm sorry if we were a little too loud."

Oh, he could feel the Shimada offspring trying to decapitate him with sharp looks, and part of him was amused by that.

"The manager was talking about noises as if caused by a brawl. If you... have had sexual intercourse, this could be an explanation. Could we ask to take a look around your room anyway?"

Omnics couldn't blush. Humans could, and the human cop did. Fucking as a reason for noises and disturbances usually worked and it usually made people feel uncomfortable enough to not ask any further. More importantly, the Omnic took the bait Jack had thrown. Neither Jack nor the Shimada offspring had made noises as if they had been fighting.

Those bastards hadn't been called by management.

"Mh", the soldier grunted, leaned down a little to scratch his right calf just below the knee. "Do you guys have a few minutes? My sweetheart's still naked and I'm, well..." He looked down at his own naked torso, raised one of the corners of his mouth apologetically.

They couldn't see that Jack was pulling his pant leg upwards just enough to take the combat knife lodged in a sheath above his ankle with his index and middle finger, as his leg was still behind the door frame. They couldn't see that he tossed said knife onto the bed, above Hanzo's head, close to his hands so he could take it, masked by a somewhat degrading "Get dressed, hun". Afterwards, both policemen had his full attention again, even though his mind registered the low noise of cut fabric from the bed with something close to satisfaction.

"Sir, we don't mean to interrupt you. We would just like to make sure that you and your girlfriend are okay", the Omnic said, the equivalent of a smile audible in its voice.

The human next to it smiled, nodded and added in a much too friendly manner: "Kare o uchimasu."

And suddenly, two things happened at once. Hanzo barked a simple "Take cover!" across the room, and Jack's reflexes kicked in. They had not declined even though it had been many years since his last injection with that damned super soldier serum, and they had saved his ass more than once in the last few years. Omnics were incredibly hard to read, as they had no facial expression, no muscles and tendons that had to work together to execute a certain set of movements, no eyes that gave away what they were aiming for, so the first bullet fired at Jack left a streak of heat across his forehead as he barely managed to duck away. He crouched with his back against the wall next to the door as more bullets tore through the frame, spitting splinters and chunks everywhere, and he was forced to close one eye protectively.

The eldest Shimada tore the last remains of zip ties and bed sheet from his feet, jumped off the bed and cast a demanding glance in Jack's direction. The soldier nodded towards the sports bag, almost perfect non-verbal communication while a few more bullets tore through the doorframe next to him.

Wonderful, a nasty little voice in the back of his head remarked. Even though the Omnic was a civilian model, or else he would already be in here, all the bastards needed now was some sort of grenade, and they would be completely fucked in a small room with very little to no cover.

It was pretty much exactly then that a small, metallic cylinder rolled past the doorframe, past Jack, right into the middle of the room, about the size of a beer can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying my best with this strange language called English here! You should all learn German to read this whole fic with properly used expressions and words. :P


	3. cerulean

At first, the white-haired wolf couldn't do anything but stare at the grenade lazily rolling past his feet, as if someone had indeed dropped a beer can. His mind wasn't too slow to react – it was too _fast_ , discarding ideas before they had been fully fleshed out, building new approaches before fully rejecting the old ones. He could feel his left hand clenching into a fist before he had even moved another muscle to grab the grenade, because his brain to muscle stimulation hadn't even realized what his mind wanted him to do.

The faint singsong of a taut bowstring caught his attention and made his gaze snap to the left, towards the Japanese drawing his bow, his tattooed, left arm outstretched, the bowstring nuzzled against his neatly trimmed beard and cheek, the arrowhead pointing directly at the grenade.

Jack wanted to stop him. Wanted to raise his hand, wanted to shout something, because if that was nerve gas – and everything told him that it was, as if the damn grenade had a tiny red skull painted on the side – and the archer damaged the grenade, it'd be over for both of them. The thing would just blow up, and they'd both have about 10 seconds to live before their bodies would simply shut down.

Simply put, he wasn't fast enough. The thought of raising a hand, of shouting something was there, but he didn't manage to process either before the Japanese let his arrow fly.

With a dull noise, the arrow hit the carpet, and with another, somewhat similar noise, the grenade hit the wall outside their room, across from the still opened door. Muscle memory took over as Jack reached across the doorframe and slammed the door shut, just as aggressive hissing of emerging gas could be heard from the hallway. He even went as far as pushing himself to his feet and locking the door. Of course, the door wasn't completely airtight or massive enough to stop people from coming in once the gas had cleared, but it would buy them a few minutes.

As soon as he turned around, both gas and armed people bursting through the door had moved down on his long list of problems. The Japanese had successfully taken the first place on that list, qualified by the arrow that was nocked on his bowstring. Judging by the angle, Jack figured that it was aiming precisely at his forehead, and he had to resist the urge to scratch himself there, as if a foreign object had lodged itself just above his brow.

"Woah", he said, raising both hands slowly. He was still holding the sidearm in his right hand, between thumb and index finger, barrel pointing at the ceiling as if he had to make a point of not being a threat right now.

"Give me a single reason why I should not give you the death of a mongrel you deserve", the Japanese hissed, but still Jack couldn't help but notice just how much a posture like that suited the man. He could be proud like this, noble, somewhat grim with both eyes open, the look of a falcon on his face. Only idiots closed their eyes when shooting a weapon without a scope, and that man certainly was far from being an idiot. Not even the fact that his clothes were crumpled or that remains of bed sheet and zip ties were still around his wrists destroyed the picture of a Prince holding his weapon.

"Guess you won't see your brother again if you do", the ex-commander said with a nasty kind of calm. And it worked; the Japanese lifted his head ever so slightly, the bowstring no longer cutting into his cheek, his eyes softened a bit, no longer bearing the look of a falcon about to kill its prey. Yes, it was somewhat unfair to mention Genji, but wasn't the whole world a pretty unfair place? Jack didn't feel particularly guilty about it.

He lowered his sidearm slowly, kept his fingers spread to show that he just wanted to holster it again, realized the absence of said holster and simply tucked the gun under his waistband at his back again. He couldn't quite assess the Shimada asshole or his actions, had no idea what it would take for him to shoot after all, out of reflex or alarm or God knew what else. Behind him, through the now closed door, alarmed cries could be heard. Surely the adjacent rooms had already been hastily vacated after the first few gunshots, but desperate coughs began to merge with shouts for authorities, Jack mused. Police, firefighters, whatever else Japan had to offer.

Even Hanzo's gaze moved to the door for a split second, because even he knew that they had a few minutes tops before they had to be gone. No, the soldier mentally corrected himself, before _he_ had to be gone. The older Shimada had made it quite clear that he had no intentions of accompanying the soldier.

Three seconds. It took all of three seconds until the archer finally lowered his bow without giving up his posture. He was half a head taller than the Japanese, but still the man managed to look like he was seven feet tall and above everything. From the look on his face it was clear just how much he despised the white-haired soldier... and Jack wondered if there was _anyone_ on this world he respected. His parents, maybe. His brother, before he had murdered the poor boy in cold blood.

The soldier felt tension leaving his shoulders and back as the bow was lowered and the arrow no longer pointed at his forehead, and he remembered to move. He picked up the pack of cigarettes from the small table next to the door which was now covered by splinters from the shot door frame, pocketed them and cast a glance at the bedside table littered with leftover pills. He decided to leave them as he moved to the bathroom door to grab the first aid box and the grey hoodie he had hung on the door. He tossed the medical equipment onto the sports bag, right in front of the Asian still watching him like a hawk. And yes, it obviously was just another offense to him that the soldier had just tossed something at his feet.

"What", Jack asked as he pulled the hoodie over his head and torso, "You wanna stay here and shake hands with our new friends?"

It was enough to make the archer move. He gave a dismissive snort as he moved over to where his boots lay on the carpet. Behind Jack, poisonous gas came creeping through the door, the bullet holes in the door frame were not really helping either.

It did give them an advantage though – nobody would be coming down that hallway for the next ten minutes, at least if they didn't come up with a few military grade Omnics or gas masks all of a sudden. Whoever 'they' were. The single Omnic they had sent wouldn't try to get in here. It was a civilian model, nothing that would survive for more than a few seconds against a trained soldier and an assassin.

"We will take the window", the Japanese decided after a few seconds, "I hope you can climb, Gaijin."

Jack bit the inside of his cheek. He dearly wanted to ask who the fuck had promoted the Asian to leader in the last few seconds, but his plan would have been exactly the same, since going out the door wasn't really an option. But damn, he certainly wasn't used to receiving orders anymore, no matter if they made sense or not. Nobody had tried giving him orders for the last seven years, and before that, the UN's general staff had always managed to make orders sound like friendly reminders.

At least that was how he remembered it. Maybe he really had been completely blind, just like Gabriel had spat at him in their last moments in Switzerland.

The soldier gave a low, approving grunt as he stuffed both the med kit and the holster for his Glock into the sports bag, closed the magnetic zipper on top of the bag to protect its contents from moisture. He casually noticed that the bow along with its quiver were back inside the bag as he closed it – and at the same time, he noticed how the Shimada asshole was watching him, as if any kind of rough handling of that bag with both gun and bow inside was just another affront.

"Why am I here?", the Asian asked. No, Jack corrected himself mentally again, he didn't _ask_. He _demanded_ to know. Yet at the same time, he somehow managed to sound casual as he walked past Jack, to the arrow stuck in the carpet, the very arrow that had probably saved their lives. Or at least made things a lot easier, Jack admitted.

"What?", the ex-commander responded intelligently in return. With a frown on his face, he shouldered the sports bag and turned towards the window. It was still drizzling outside, the yellow street lamps made the streets and the parking lot look like old, well-used plastic. He pulled the curtains back, looking for something like a handle to open the window. Something that made a window a window and not just a glass plate inside a wall.

"Are you deaf or just stupid?", Hanzo uttered, clearly annoyed as he pushed past Jack and flipped a little hook-like something in the middle of the window before he pushed both panes to either side, opening the window. Something in that behavior irked Jack. Something in the way the Japanese did things he thought the American to be too dumb for, like opening windows, or replying to simple questions. Something in that demeanor was annoying like an itch right between one's shoulder blades, where scratching was downright impossible.

"Has to be the old age", the soldier countered flatly with a hint of sarcasm. He put a hand on the windowsill and then, plain and simple, jumped out of the window. Much to his satisfaction, he caught a glimpse of Hanzo and how he tensed up as Jack jumped, because it was a good 13 feet drop to the ground. Nothing that proved to be a problem for Jack or his knee joints – he had jumped from greater heights during more fucked up situations. The US had tried to create super soldiers. They had at least succeeded in making people like Jack a little more durable than the normal human being. He landed in a crouch to minimize the noise he made, straightened himself and looked up.

Hanzo was standing at the window, obviously expecting the soldier to break at least one leg or something else, like his neck, or at least grunting in pain as he landed. Nothing like that had happened, but the Japanese's face didn't show any kind of reaction either way.

While Jack's jump had been pragmatic, without any flourishes or other bullshit, Hanzo once again proved to be a lot more nimble than the soldier. He swung himself out of the window, held onto the windowsill and a small ledge in the wall with his fingers and one boot, let himself drop a few feet until he could take hold of the window frame below, and then proceeded to land like a damn predator in front of Jack, without so much as a single noise.

Was he always like that, Jack mused, or did he just put up a show right now because he wanted to show just how superior he was?

"You wanna drive?", the grey-haired man asked as he produced keys from his pocket. Keys that weren't actual 'keys' anymore, but people had gotten used to calling them car keys. It was merely a black key chain with a common, white and green rental car company tag dangling from it. As long as you had the 'keys' in your pocket when approaching your car, it would open and start. The rental car company would have a lot of fun trying to find out who the hell 'Paul Everett' was once they'd catch up that the credit card used to pay for the car had been stolen.

Hanzo's reaction, however, surprised Jack. The archer frowned, and instead of taking the keys like a duck takes to water, he shook his head.

"I do not drive", he proclaimed, as if Jack had offended him again just by asking. "I have never been required to drive myself."

Oh, it _amused_ Jack. The way Hanzo looked like an offended barn owl was just too good to be true. And in addition to that, his amusement must have shown on his face, because the Asian's face grew considerably darker.

"Alright", the soldier said, trying to hide his smirk as he pointed towards the dark blue Lexus hovering in one of the parking lots. "Get in, your highness."

A crowd had already gathered in front of the hotel's main entrance, some of them clearly guests in their PJs and with bare feet scattered across the parking lot, afraid that something _else_ than gunshots and gas grenades would happen inside the hotel, but the crowd's attention was clearly directed at the main entrance, not at the parking lot. Besides, it would have been suspicious if they had started running towards the car now, or if they had somehow appeared to be in a hurry at all. Their best bet was to just look normal.

Jack tossed the sports bag onto the back seat, cast a glance across the wet roof of the car towards Hanzo, who had apparently just wanted to sit down in the back. Of course, he mused. Passengers always sat in the back, because sitting next to their driver was deemed inappropriate. But cuddling with an oversized sports bag meant for ice hockey equipment was even less desirable, it seemed, because the Japanese decided on the front seat instead. Jack let himself drop into the driver's seat, causing the repulsors of the car to emit a low sigh, while Hanzo climbed into his seat like he had climbed out of that window just now: Nimble, quiet, agile. Maybe it wasn't just a show he had put on earlier.

The car's electric motor whirred silently as Jack started it and backed out of the parking lot, onto the street. The light from the HUD and the instruments painted his face a light blue, with his scars and wrinkles now appearing much deeper than they actually were.

He cast a look into the outside mirror as he pulled onto the street, until his gaze was sidetracked by the fact that the Japanese was looking at him, somewhat expectantly. But he remained silent.

"What?", Jack heard himself ask and cursed inwardly. He wanted to let the bastard stew in his own juice, wanted to act like he didn't give a damn about his glares, whether he glared at the street, at the glove box or at him. He could already see himself simply reach across the car and turn his head away, because it annoyed him, and the thought itself was satisfying. Mostly because he imagined that the Japanese would have simply chopped his hand off for such an offense.

"I asked you a question", Hanzo stated with that thick accent that spoke volumes about how he had only learned his English from teachers, not from actually speaking the language itself, along with a few other languages maybe. Crime bosses usually had to communicate with their clients, and Kaito Shimada was the kind of person who'd bring home a textbook and cane instead of chocolate and plush toys.

Right. Jack hadn't forgotten about the question, but he still didn't know how to answer it. Last time he had been saved by those two nice gentlemen at the door who had then wanted to kill him, this time however he had no such luck. He could have simply kept silent, but then the Asian would have stared at him for the whole trip. God, he wanted to remove the arrogance from that man's face with his fist and a lot of violence.

"You'd rather I just left you behind?", Jack snapped, and cursed inwardly again. It was a counter question, a defensive one at that. Stupid idea, and the Japanese caught on quickly. The soldier could see him raise his chin a few inches from the corner of his eye.

"No", Hanzo retorted, plain and simple. It sounded honest.

"Genji never spoke badly about you", the soldier began, knew he was dealing the family card again just to make the Shimada asshole shut up. "He actually spoke very little of you at all, but I won't just leave the brother of one of my men to die just because I believe he's a giant asshole. 'sides, I know what your clan does to traitors. That's something no living being deserves."

It was the last part that caused Hanzo to avert his gaze, looking at the bleak street in front of them instead, only illuminated by the car's LED headlights. His lips were little more than a thin line when Jack glanced over without turning his head.

"I...", the Japanese began, interrupted himself. It was the first time he was at a loss for words, Jack noted, even though it only lasted for a few seconds. "The Shimada clan has made mistakes", he continued shortly after, and the soldier couldn't help but mentally replace 'Shimada clan' with 'I' in that sentence. That man had killed his brother just because he had been unruly. That fact made Hanzo a giant dickhead in Jack's book.

At least the fact that he had left the clan, even fought the clan here and there, made him a little more human. Human enough to still be alive after encountering someone like Jack, at least.

"The clan—"

"When—"

Awkward silence followed the attempt of both men to speak at the same time, and for a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Both men were clever enough to know just how stupid the other must have felt in this moment – still Hanzo was better at being an arrogant fuck. He lifted his chin a few inches and remained silent once again.

"You got papers?", the white-haired wanted to know after another few seconds, mercifully dropping the former subject he had wanted to mention. "I don't wanna stay in this country longer than necessary."

Judging by the gesture Jack could catch in the corner of his eye, 'this country' had just been another offense uttered by him. That guy must've spent most of his time being offended, without people weighing their words around him like it had been during his time in the clan. But now, outside of said clan? Must've been a pretty rough awakening for the little prince.

"Forged papers", Hanzo presumed without making his words sound like a question. "No. No, but I know where I can get some. In Nagoya—"

"We don't have that kind of time", the soldier interrupted him, "And I certainly don't want to explain to border control that the half-naked guy next to me is an ex mafia boss."

Strangely enough, Hanzo didn't act offended this time. He didn't shoot a snappy remark back, he didn't act like Jack was in no position to even speak to him at all, but he _did_ pull the second sleeve of his Kimono over his bare, tattooed shoulder. Okay, so he wasn't a _half-naked_ ex mafia boss anymore, but that didn't really help with things.

"I have never left the continent", the assassin explained after a moment where only the rain softly tapping against the car had been their companion. "The borders between countries in Asia have never been a problem."

"Yeah, well, I won't be trekking back to Europe", Jack grumbled. In his mind's eye, he could already see himself with a backpack and a beard worth three months arrive in Russia – and instantly get shot. He still had bounties of several hundred thousand Credits placed on him. How much exactly? He never bothered to check, but it was enough that every headhunter out there had a photo of him in their wallet, right next to their husband, wife and children.

At this point, Hanzo slowly seemed to understand that intercontinental travel without proper papers would be difficult. "You could have someone pick us up, John Morrison", he said, dropping a pretty heavy bomb right in Jack's lap without any warning.

So the bastard knew who he was. He had somehow figured it out, which wasn't really hard to do, given the fact that he had called Genji one of his men. Officially, that wasn't the case anymore, but then again he was also dead officially. Those declared dead always lived longer.

He decided to not give the Asian the satisfaction of any kind of surprise on his face.

"Not with the current air traffic control over China and Russia", he said as if nothing had ever happened.  In fact, he made a point to look relaxed; he took one hand off the wheel, rested the other hand lazily on the bottom and shifted a little in his seat. Adrenaline and fatigue were both breathing down his neck, but he wouldn't let down his guard. He couldn't. Especially not with a Shimada in the passenger seat.

"Every military flight would be on their radar instantly. Lindholm can do a whole fucking lot with machines, but he's no wizard. A military signature is still a military signature, even if we were to fly with civilian codes over residential areas. Every kid with a telescope could see that we're not a civilian aircraft."

"There is an airport, two hours from here", Hanzo almost interrupted the soldier, turning his head to look at Jack. "Privately owned, only for private planes. My... father used to take me there."

And Jack couldn't help but grin at what Hanzo was implying. It was the kind of grin that would fit someone like Jesse McCree much more, when he was about to do something really stupid. Or when he had just done so.

"You really wanna steal a jet", the wolf said, counting on protest from the dragon, on arrogant behavior, on something that made him bristle with suppressed anger again, but nothing happened. He turned his head to look at the archer and found himself looking at his reflection in the window. It was an old trick every child knew. He had done it himself, acting like he was looking out of the window in the school bus in Bloomington, while secretly looking at people. At girls, mostly. It was the best way to observe someone without being noticed.

"I cannot fly a plane", the Japanese finally said, his breath visible in little condensed clouds against the window.

The soldier made a little, amused grunt.

"Luckily for you, I can."

 

* * *

 

_The smell of worn leather was heavy in the air, along with something the archer couldn't quite point out. It was like sweat without smelling disgusting, like the smell of someone who had just taken a shower without any kind of artificial perfume to mask his own scent._

_There was a thumb on his chin, rough, heavy, the fingers on the opposing side of his jaw like a silent promise, like a vice ready to be used. Legs and the seam of a leather jacket were in front of him, colors blurring together like an unfinished water color painting with too much water, swirling into each other without actually mixing. Blue and white, with spots of red – and a second later, the Asian realized that he was on his knees, his hands tied behind his back, his feet tied to the ground or something else; he couldn't move either of them. There was the smell of industrial grade detergent used for hotel sheets, a scent he remembered from a few hours ago when he had been tied to the bed in the cheap hotel room._

_Above him, a command was uttered. Something Hanzo Shimada would have taken as an offense in every other situation, because he was nobody to take orders from anyone. He didn't follow orders, he did what he wanted, because even without a clan, he was still a king. A king living like a mutt._

_And he did open his mouth like a good, obedient pedigree dog as gloved fingers unbuttoned the trousers right in front of his eyes._

_* * *_

Assassins didn't wake like normal people. They had to be ready to strike even before they knew they were ready, and it was no different with the Japanese waking from an unwanted dream on the passenger seat. He kept his eyes closed, the smell of used leather still clinging to his nostrils, and his mind was fully awake before his body moved a single muscle. His breathing was calm as _another_ kind of memory came seeping through his mind. He was still in a car with the Gaijin, that man who had tied him up in a bed just hours ago in a very degrading manner. The man who didn't give a damn about who he was, and it offended the Shimada heir. It offended the dragon.

The first thing Hanzo saw as he opened his eyes was a pale reflection of the same, blood red streak he had seen in the Okumai building – but now the hazy, grey daylight dulled the effect the visor had had on Hanzo the first time he had seen it. He could see the whole mask now, the carbon black plates below the red visor, the forehead with the prominent scar above it, crowned by white hair and cut off by the dark grey hood the soldier was still wearing. It looked like someone had made an attempt to conceal high-end military technology by making it look almost casual under the hood.

The same red streak, along with the whole mask, moved a few inches, enough that Hanzo knew he was being looked at through the reflection of the window, no matter how pale the glass made the visor look.

"Mornin'", the slightly distorted voice below the mask said while the soldier lifted one hand to do _something_ at the side of his visor. Adjust something, probably. He had never been good with electronic devices of any kind.

Instead of giving a reply, the archer shifted in the passenger seat, adjusted his Kimono over his chest with a few gentle tugs and cleared his throat that felt like he hadn't spoken for a whole week. A quick glance at the car's instruments confirmed what his back and neck were trying to tell him: He had been asleep for at least four hours. Night had given way to a rainy, grey day, the cloud cover made it impossible to make a guess at the time of day.

The car had been parked between a few bushes next to a gravel road probably not belonging to any official street – only the high fence across from the car and the signs that warned of trespassing provided information that they were not _somewhere_. The signs even promised deadly force.

A few vertical stabilizers visible behind a flat terminal building underlined his assumption.

"I can see two Bastion and four Skyfire units from here", the soldier said as he removed the mask from his face with two fingers on each temple. He cast a look over his shoulder and stuffed it back into the opened sports bag on the rear seat. Without the Kevlar fabric covering his ears and part of his chin all the way down his throat, he would have looked almost normal just now. The existence of a face took a lot of mysticism from people – the main reason why full masks had become so popular amongst terrorists in the last few years.

"Hmh", the archer murmured, cleared his throat again as it still felt blocked somehow. "We will take the front entrance."

It caused Jack to shoot him a doubting look. He made a little gesture with his hand, prompting the Shimada offspring to continue with his elaboration.

"The best kind of disguise is to simply act normal", the Japanese explained, his voice that of a teacher trying to explain something to a 10-year-old retard. "We will go through the front entrance, demand to board my jet and take off. You can be my pilot."

The short, barked laugh that escaped Jack's lips was both unbelieving and irate.

"I _can_ be your pilot", he repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Without me, you would barely be able to turn on the reading lights. And you'd still call for someone to do it for you, I guess."

"And your idea is to take six military grade Omnics head on, to do what exactly? To smash one of the jet's windows and reach inside, hoping it is just as well secured as your homes made of cardboard in the United States?"

"Plywood", Jack shot back before he could get a hold on himself. As if American building materials were their biggest problem just now.

For a while, the men just stared at each other. Jack was showing the classical signs of annoyance and anger, his brow furrowed, his eyes slightly narrowed, his jaw set. Hanzo, on the other hand, sat there like the prince he was, allowing his lowborn driver to also be his pilot. Both men knew they were completely dependent on each other, yet it still felt as if Jack would have to sit up and beg just to be taken along.

God, Jack wanted to smash the arrogance from that man's face with his fist. But breaking his nose here and now would have caused more trouble than good. And besides, it would have been a clear confession of failure on Jack's side.

With an annoyed and unnecessarily rough motion, he pushed the car's start button, waited until the instruments had settled down and pulled the vehicle out of the bushes, onto the gravel road meant for service personnel to check the fence once a month.

"If I have to draw my weapon in there, I'll fucking blame you", the soldier grunted with annoyance as he steered the car back to the official front entrance while his passenger seemed to bask in the fact that his idea had been the better of the two.

Maybe breaking his nose was an option after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This hasn't been beta read at all. I'm sure there are lots of typos and just general errors. Feel free to tell me about them, here or on Tumblr: holzkartoffel.tumblr.com
> 
> Also if anyone could tell me where the heck all those hits come from... why is this thing so popular all of a sudden? o_o

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, you might've guessed already, but here are a few facts:
> 
> \- Hugs and kisses for my beta readers! <3  
> \- English is clearly NOT my native tongue and I know it sucks now and then, sorry for any mistakes I made  
> \- what is writing  
> \- Funny how you suddenly forget expressions and phrases in BOTH languages when trying to translate  
> \- Yes, I do have a Tumblr blog (with a single follower, woooohoo!), you can find it here: tumblr.com/holzkartoffel  
> \- Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I wrote my last Fanfic in English when I was 13 years old (I'm more than twice as old now), so knowing that maybe one or two people actually enjoy reading it would be great. Knowing that it sucks ass would also be great, because I would just... not continue writing then! :D


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